


The Eventual Triumph of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins

by Lee_Whimsy



Series: Carry Your Will [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lee_Whimsy/pseuds/Lee_Whimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lobelia Sackville-Baggins dreams and schemes and invites herself over for afternoon tea; a bid for her cousin’s real estate, however, is rudely interrupted by a knock on the door of Bag End.</p><p>(It’s the bounden duty of Thráin’s surviving children to coax Bilbo into running away from home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eventual Triumph of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.

“So the goblins had the high ground, you see.  Entirely outflanked our soldiers, just as Bard feared, and scaled the slopes behind us.  Wasn’t that a pickle!  But Bard and the Elvenking hung on like grim death on the spurs.  Down in the valley Thorin was fighting, and calling to his kinsman so bold and fine that even men and elves rushed down to make their stand beside him.”

Bilbo nudged the salt shaker several inches ahead and began rearranging his small army of blackberries, scattered around the table.  Lobelia, who had long since stopped paying attention to troop movements, made a vaguely agreeable noise and popped the largest of the blackberries into her mouth.

“Lobelia,” Bilbo said, scandalized.  “That was Dain Ironfoot!”

“Oh, dear,” said Lobelia.  “Was it?  Well, surely your battle can do without him.”

“It most certainly cannot. Dain rallied the dwarves after Thorin was wounded.  You see?” Bilbo said, and knocked the salt shaker over.  He patted it apologetically as it lay there, salt scattered across the polished wooden table. “A sad thing, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.  Thorin was wounded, and Fíli and Kíli soon after, poor brave boys, and I don’t suppose any of them would have lived if it weren’t for Thranduil’s captain, defending them like a wild thing cornered.  And just then, the goblins rushed Ravenhill—”

Lobelia sat beside him, straight-backed and bored to tears, trying desperately to remember what had possessed her to come to Bag End every Tuesday for afternoon tea. 

The house, of course, was foremost in her mind.  Only a few years ago, she and Otho had been working out how to fit their furniture through the front door; then Bilbo Baggins reappeared on the Hill, a wizard in tow, with trunks full of gold and jewels strapped to his pony.  Well!  What else did he expect but that folk would give him up for lost?  Killed by ruffians on the road, most like, or fallen into a stream and drowned, or kidnapped by elves. Lobelia was firmly of the mind that if a fellow decided to vanish for months and months, he could at least have the decency to die and stay properly dead.  It was thoughtless, getting everyone’s hopes up only to dash them at the last minute. 

(She had conveniently forgotten that the hobbits living in and around the Hill, from Bagshot Row all the way down to the Bywater, had been quite heartbroken by their Mister Baggins’ vanishment.  When word got around that he was presumed dead, poor Hamfast Gamgee stood at the front gate and cried, to the everlasting embarrassment of everyone in the neighborhood.

“There, there,” Lobelia had said, when she saw him.  She and Otho were Bilbo’s next of kin, after all; it was her disagreeable duty to comfort the bereaved.  “I’m sure it was a quick death.  Nothing long or painful, you know.  And I expect someone found him and gave him a proper burial eventually.  Perhaps even with flowers.”

At that, Bell Goodchild burst into tears, too.  And though she would never in her life admit it, the sight of all those unhappy folk crowding around Bag End, asking if the rumors were true, had made even Lobelia’s eyes prickle.)

Well, it was all for nothing.  Bilbo returned from his adventuring with a pile of treasure and an endless supply of tall tales.  A new plan of attack was necessary.  So Lobelia had been inviting herself over for tea every Tuesday for the last five years, listening to Bilbo’s ridiculous stories and doing her best to be polite.

“—and Thorin told me afterward that all was quite forgiven, and tried to give me my fourteenth share regardless.  But I told him that he ought to spend it on the Desolation instead: grow flowers, cut some terraced gardens into the mountainside, that sort of thing.  Plant some orchards by the River Running.  It was an awful, dreary place, you know.  I rather thought it would do his spirits good to have some growing things around.”

Lobelia wondered if there really was a dwarf named Thorin living off in the east, or if the entire tale had been spun from her cousin’s baffling mind.  “Well, I’m sure he took your advice,” she said, wondering if she could have another handful of blackberries, now that the mock battle was over.  “And very good advice it was, too.”

“Hm,” Bilbo said, and glanced over at Lobelia with uncomfortably keen eyes.  “You know, cousin, you don’t have to—”

But whatever Lobelia didn’t have to do, she never found out.  At that precise moment the doorbell rang. Bilbo popped up from his chair like a cork out of bottle.  “Won’t be a moment!” he said, vanishing into the hallway.  “That’ll be cousin Sigismond.  He promised to take me to the white towers near Mithlond this winter, did I tell you?”

“Once or twice,” Lobelia said, with a very heavy sigh.  But Bilbo was too busy with the door to pay any attention to her.  She heard the heavy click of the latch, and a creak as the door swung open.  Then Bilbo gasped.

“Good heavens,” she heard him say, his voice muffled.  “Oh, I never imagined—good heavens!”

Another voice, deeper and smoother, answered.  Lobelia, curiosity piqued in spite of herself, craned around trying to catch a glimpse down the hallway.

She didn’t have to wait long.  Bilbo was soon ushering his unexpected guest inside.  At first glance, Lobelia was so astonished that she could have said nothing with certainty, except that it was most certainly _not_ Sigismond Took. 

“My lady, please have a seat wherever you like,” Bilbo said, hurrying to fetch the kettle.  “Is there anything I can bring for you?  There’s a veritable lake of tea, of course, and a tolerable wine cellar—would a bottle of Dorwinion do?”

“Very nicely,” said the dwarf, looking pleased. 

Bilbo had said _my lady,_ but Lobelia wondered if she had misheard.  “Cousin, perhaps I should say goodbye for the afternoon,” she said, looking pointedly between Bilbo and the dwarf. “I would hate to be a nuisance.”

“Oh, yes, Lobelia,” Bilbo said, abstractedly.  “You are still here, aren’t you?  Lady Dís, this is Missus Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, my cousin’s wife.  Lobelia, this is Dís, sister to King Thorin II of Erebor.  She rules Ered Luin in Thorin’s name.”

“It is a pleasure,” Dís said, bowing in Lobelia’s direction, “to meet any relative of Bilbo Baggins.  My royal brother holds your cousin in high esteem, Missus Sackville-Baggins.”

 “Goodness gracious,” said Lobelia, so flummoxed that she only just remembered to curtsey. 

Surely, she thought, this was just another one of Bilbo’s little jokes.  But he was forever talking about dwarves, and it was difficult to deny that on this particular occasion there was indeed a dwarf standing in Bag End: a dwarf wearing enormous boots and a fine coat lined with fur, with something that looked suspiciously like a sword dangling from her hip. 

Bilbo and Dís fell into easy conversation.  As far as Lobelia could make out, they had never laid eyes on each other before, but they seemed to have a prodigious number of mutual acquaintances.  Occasionally, Bilbo would make a token effort to pull her into the conversation (“I told you about Bofur; remember, Lobelia, the fellow with the funny hat?”) but to no avail.  Lobelia couldn’t stop staring long enough to take a sip of wine, much less make small talk. 

She had never seen a dwarf before.  Like everyone else in Hobbiton, she knew that they were tall and broad, bearded, with strong arms and grim, unpleasant faces.  Dís was certainly tall, and very solid.  Her face was weathered, her hands large and scarred, and there were streaks of grey in her hair. Occasionally she toyed with the silver and crystal braided into her dark beard.

She looked, though Lobelia would never know it, a great deal like Thorin Oakenshield. 

“But dwarf women never leave their caves,” Lobelia said, when the conversation turned at last to Dís’ journey from the Blue Mountains.  “All the stories say so.”

“Indeed they do,” said Dís, setting down her glass.  “And when I pass your neighbors on the road, they will know that I cannot be a woman, having grown up on all the same tales as your good self.  So they will say that a great dwarven prince passed by with his guards, and who will be the wiser?”

“Oh,” Lobelia said, frowning.  “Why, then, you all might be women, and your men the ones living quiet at home!”

Dís laughed.  It was a deep baritone laugh, pleasant to listen to.  “Indeed we might,” she said.  “But no matter.  Perhaps we should turn to business, Mister Baggins, at least for the moment.  The day is getting on, and I’ve sent my escort ahead to Bree.”

“You’re going to the mountain, I suppose?”

“For Fíli’s wedding,” Dís said, and accepted Bilbo’s congratulations with good grace.  “Yes, yes, it’s a fine thing.  But the point is that I’m needed in Erebor by mid-autumn at the latest.  I haven’t travelled the Wilds for twenty years, and my brother tells me that much has changed.  I’m looking for a guide.  I’d hoped that you might be interested.”

Bilbo choked on his wine.  “Me?”

Dís nodded.

“Good heavens,” he said, faintly.  “Surely Thorin told you how useless I am.”

“He told me,” Dís said, “that you brought him to his kingdom.”

Lobelia was the first hobbit in the room to recover her wits.  “How marvelous!” she cried.  “You’ve been so longing for something to do, cousin dear.  Wouldn’t it be grand to see your old friends again?   All your dwarves, and that nice old bear, and Lord Something on the river?”

At _Lord Something_ , Dís made a strange, muffled noise.  Lobelia, in hot pursuit of her life’s ambition, paid her no attention whatsoever.  “And there’s no telling when another offer will come along,” she continued.  “You can’t expect that folk will always be knocking on your door and asking you to come along on their adventures.”

“Can’t I?” Bilbo said, staring at her with polite bafflement; perhaps she had been a touch too enthusiastic.  Then his expression cleared. “Oh. Yes.  I would need someone to look after Bag End, wouldn’t I?”

Lobelia tried to arrange her face appropriately.  “I suppose you would.”

It took another quarter of an hour to convince him, and just as long after that before he could do anything other than flutter about the kitchen, practically tripping over himself with excitement.  But soon it was all settled.  Dís would stay the night at the Green Dragon, and Bilbo would meet her there in the morning; they would make for Bree together.  “After that,” he said, “it’s straight up the Greenway to Imladris.  That is, if you’re agreeable?”

“Oh, I don’t mind elves,” Dís said, easily.  She had asked Bilbo for paper and ink, and was writing some sort of letter while they talked.  “Provided they keep a respectful distance, and don’t sing rude songs where I can hear it.”

After that, Bilbo was off to see his solicitors.  “Coming back from the dead was well and good,” he said, “but I can scarcely afford to repeat the experience.  You and Otho can let the place, if you’d like.  Mind you, if you bully my tenants, I’ll know of it!  Bell Goodchild told me what you did to my poor gardener.”

“A very emotional fellow,” Lobelia said, sniffing.  “But I suppose he does have a way with flowers.”

Before dinnertime, Dís was gone, and Bilbo left soon after, hoping to catch Messrs. Grubb, Grubb, and Burrowes before they closed shop for the night.  “Stay as long as you like,” Bilbo said, as he hurried out the door.  “And please don’t steal anything!  You’ll have it all soon enough.”

Then he was gone, too.  All that was left of their strange afternoon was the empty wine bottle in the kitchen and a small pile of blackberries on the table, sitting unobtrusively beside the fallen salt shaker.  Lobelia, purely out of habit, set the shaker upright and brushed away the spilled salt. 

She had known all her life that Bilbo was a silly little creature.  He’d been odd when they were children, and he was even odder now; his intervening years of respectability were mere aberration.  But even if bits of his mad stories were true, he was still a hobbit.  It didn’t feel—well.  It didn’t feel quite right, if Lobelia was perfectly honest with herself.  Shooing him out the door like a buzzing fly, when Bilbo himself admitted that he’d only survived his last adventure with a vast deal of help and prodigious good luck. 

Lobelia sighed.  Of all the time to start suffering from a weak constitution! 

She was just about to leap up and chase after Bilbo, to suggest that perhaps he ought to visit someplace a trifle less dangerous than Erebor.  She’d heard that Tuckborough was lovely in early summer, and Bilbo would fit in marvelously.  But before she could make good her resolution, something caught her eye. 

There was an envelope sitting on the table.  That in itself wasn’t particularly noteworthy, though Lobelia might have taken a moment to investigate regardless. But this envelope, though it wasn’t addressed in Bilbo’s handwriting, had her name on it. She snatched it up without second thought.  A scrap of Bilbo’s stationary, torn from a larger page, had been pinned to the envelope.  It said, in a firm hurried script that Lobelia squinted to read:

_Madam, only a fool would believe that the Wild is not without its dangers.  I cannot promise your cousin’s safe return, but I can at least assure you that his leaving is not in vain.  My family owes Bilbo Baggins a great debt.  We shall see it paid._

_If nothing else, the enclosed letter (a copy; the original came to me by courier this past autumn) will show you that he is at least as welcome among my people as he is among your own._

_May your hearth be warm, and your days ever long,_

_Dís_

_(Daughter of Thrain and granddaughter of Thrór, etc. etc.)_

Lobelia set the note aside, ripping open the envelope so hastily that she cut herself on a torn edge of paper.   She stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth, unwilling to set the letter down even to find a handkerchief, and unfolded the pages with one hand. 

After reading the letter, she set it down on the table in front of her—and picked it up again immediately, a process she repeated almost a dozen times. Indeed, Lobelia sat there at her cousin’s table, silent except for the crinkling of paper and the occasional trill of a bird outside the window, all afternoon long. 

She didn’t stir until the sun slipped beneath the fields and shadows darkened the room.  Then she stood up, put on her bonnet, and walked quietly home, the gentle evening air tugging at the starched ruffles of her dress.

“Oh, don’t fuss,” she said, when her husband asked where she had been all afternoon.  “It’s the best news we’ve had in month of midsummer days.  That silly Bilbo Baggins is gone again.  I expect he won’t be back for years.  Thanks to my prudence, and without the slightest help from you, I have arranged it so that we shall have Bag End at last.”

“Good heavens,” said Otho Sackville-Baggins.  “Off on another one of his dreadful adventures, I suppose.  Old Bungo would be heartbroken.  He built that hole himself, you know, for that young wife of his—a Took, of all creatures.  Well, my dear!  Blood will out, that’s what I always say.”

“I suppose it does,” Lobelia said.  When she was a child, digging up wildflowers in the ditch by her front gate, she had sometimes seen Belladonna Baggins walk by, a rucksack on her sturdy shoulders and a lad a few years older than Lobelia bounding ahead, singing and bright.

“I mean, really, what use is a hobbit without a home?” Otho said, shaking his head.  “It’s a mighty queer business.  Still, we’ve got to make the best of it.  Bag End ours at last!  You must start packing at once.”

“Oh, the morning will come soon enough,” Lobelia said.

Their victory was assured, after all.  Why hurry? Instead she settled down in her chair by the hearth, a cup of tea in hand, and thought about the letter folded neatly in her dress pocket.   She had the whole thing by heart, but she couldn’t resist the longing to pull it out and read it just one more time. 

 _Sister,_ it ran, _you will laugh to read this, and tease me mercilessly when you come to Erebor at last.  But I have a favor to ask of you.  If you grant it I will be in your debt (and never again mention how you stole grandmother’s favorite helm, nor how you bribed me to sneak it back into the armory when the royals guards were scrambling about looking for the culprit)._

_It has been five years since my coronation, and life here is very fine.  I do not mean that Erebor is prospering, or that our storehouses are full to bursting with grain after so many long cruel winters, or that I have sent my ambassadors to the cities of Harad and the courts of Minas Tirith, although of course all those things are true.  Instead I mean that—_

_I hardly know what I mean.  Do you remember, in the long years of our exile, how often you said that I was entirely too selfish, and never over anything worthwhile?  I sat for months in a rotting village gaol over a handful of stolen tools; I never complained when work kept me from you and the boys for years upon years._

_Well, it happened just as you always said it would.  My nephews grew up without me.  Now I am growing old, and I have learned at last that a kingdom is not worth a brass farthing without decent folk to look after it.   I have also learned, perhaps far too late, that a king is no good at all without decent folk to look after_ him.

_Life here is very fine.  But I would like it better if I had a friend upon whom I could rely: not to look after my kingdom, for that is well managed, but to look after me. Who in this strange world would believe that the King under the Mountain needed a thief to keep him honest?  Certain meddling wizards I exclude.  They are too strange themselves to bother with good sense._

_Perhaps I am still selfish after all._

_You have promised that you will leave Ered Luin in the spring.  On your way east, I ask that you pay a visit to Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and see if he would not mind coming out of retirement to look after his company of foolish wayward dwarves once more.  His house is not easy to find, but you will manage it._

_May your road be easy and your axe always sharp,_

_Thorin_

_(Son of Thrain, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, Durin’s Heir, and always your devoted brother)_

Well, Otho had the right of it, Lobelia thought, tucking the letter back inside its envelope and leaning forward to set it by the mantelpiece.  A hobbit without a home wasn’t really a hobbit at all.  How fortunate, then, that she and Otho would have Bag End; how fortunate that her cousin could scarcely step onto the road without being swept down it. 

Bilbo Baggins was forever going home.


End file.
